


The Kindest Girl

by Akindheartedfeline



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, letswritesherlock, yay plot twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akindheartedfeline/pseuds/Akindheartedfeline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets upset with Sherlock for risking a girl’s life in a case, and once they return to 221b they find an odd man in a bowtie with answers</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindest Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Let’s Write Sherlock thing and this is my first fic so bare with me? Angst angst angst ye~

The lights of downtown London blazed under the dark, sun lacking sky, the city’s buzz of daytime energy pouring over and warping into the late hours of night. Cars darted along the road; people scurried down the streets as dark silhouettes holding umbrellas and the occasional jacket to protect themselves from the growing rain. Everything was static, random and mixed and incomprehensible, a hectic glow bathing and gracing the streets. In an old cab making its way along the black pavement sat a fairly exhausted John Watson, lazily observing the divine madness that was London after dark through a rain streaked window. He watched how the lights streaked past, blurred in motion. The glass was cool against his forehead, pleasantly numbing him in comparison to the stuffy cab. It felt nice, the loss of feeling, made him feel as if he had a proper excuse to just stop thinking for a while.

Distantly, he felt a firm pressure along his side, not too heavy, not too light, comfortable, really, and familiar too. He could feel the tweed of his companions coat rub against his jacketed shoulder. Quite, even breathes like a calming rhythm beside him. Part of him noticed these things and naturally relaxed; the other part picked out every sound, every touch, every move, or lack of them, and wound tighter and tighter, waiting to snap. This was the part of him that wanted to shove the man beside him away, physically and mentally, to block him off and hold him at a distance so John could just breathe.

But John knew he didn’t have the energy to do that, at least, not right now, so he settled for just trying to breathe. He let Sherlock’s knee bump his; he accepted the heat radiating off his partner seep into his seemingly frozen bones to slowly defrost them. John tried to tell himself that that was the only reason he was getting warm, although there was no denying that a heat of frustration was building within his gut, like a smoldering ember beginning to catch fire once more.

A deep soothing voice broke him from his haze. “Are you going to ignore me all night then?” John sighed, his eyelids falling heavy. He remained silent, not looking away from the window, but Sherlock wasn’t having it. “You know eventually you’ll have to speak to me. We live together, it’s quite unavoidable.” Even as he spoke, Sherlock stayed irritatingly calm. He didn’t even move, his breathes keeping their steady rhythm. John made a conscious effort to keep his breathes from lining up with the other man’s, simply out of spite. 

Sherlock voice came from beside him once again, this statement catching John’s attention.

“I don’t know what you would have rather me done.”

John clenched his jaw, but did not turn.

“I would have rather you not gamble with other people’s lives.”

“I did not gamble with her life,” Sherlock started.

“Don’t you dare,” John cut him off, pausing to keep his voice steady and take a deep breathe, closing his eyes in fight of restraint, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to lie about this, not to yourself, and definitely not to me.” Sherlock did not say anything in response, and after a moment, John felt himself begin speaking again. “That girl, that poor girl needed help, Sherlock, and while she begged for it you were too busy playing mind games.” 

“I knew what I was doing.” Sherlock said evenly. John sighed exasperatedly. Why did he even try to get through to him? John did not even realize that he had said it aloud. 

“Because you refuse to believe that I lack humanity in total.”

John couldn’t even bring himself to turn and look at his partner, the frustration building ever more within him with the man beside him. He wondered how much longer it would take for him to snap. 

“Well, I’m starting to lose faith.”

“You don’t mean that.” John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him now, but still did not look away from the window. The rain had picked up, creating a constant mini waterfall slipping down the glass, distorting the image of everything outside. It made John feel a bit claustrophobic, in all honesty, like he was trapped. Trapped with the one person who he least desired to be with at the moment.  
John scoffed, “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t mean.”  
At that, Sherlock smirked as if amused, but it quickly fell when John turned to face him looking like murder. And, damn if looks could kill.

“How could you? How could you do that to her?” John’s voice was quiet but his words were heavy, hanging weighted in the air. 

“She turned out fine in the end.” Sherlock said plainly.

John frowned at him. “Did she though? I disagree, and I don’t think you would be saying that if you actually spoke to her after everything.” Sherlock watched him with unwavering eyes, expectant of further explanation, so John continued. “You didn’t hear her outside. She was wrapped up in an orange fleece blanket, sitting on the back of an ambulance. Her dress was torn, cuts all over her. But the worst was her eyes. They were so haunted and frightened. So broken, spooked, like an animal. And all she would say is ‘I want to see the doctor. I need the doctor. Where is the doctor? I need him.’ But no matter what medic they brought to her, she kept saying it. She wouldn’t stop. Even when I went to say goodbye to her, she asked me if I had found him, the doctor, she meant, I told her no, and she said that that was okay. That he would come eventually, and he would be very happy that I helped her so much.”  
John had to stop so he could take a breather. Sometime after he began speaking he felt a warm prickling pick up behind his eyes. He balled his hands in fists and fought the urge to let the ears free. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t you dare cry. A large, reassuring hand slid onto his thigh, and he looked back towards the cold glass window, shifting his leg and nudging the hand away resentfully. “Her name is Clara; she’s a lovely girl, really, quite pretty, and she has the kindest eyes. The kind of eyes that make you feel like she is most certainly rooting for your wellbeing, like she doesn’t even know you and she already cares about you.”

Sherlock still did not say a word. The longer the silence stretched, the longer John and to think, and the more he thought, the more he got upset. “She is the sweetest, kindest girl. She didn’t deserve any of this. How could you just stand there, stand there and watch her be hurt to the point of madness, because of what? Curiosity? Sherlock that is twisted; that is sick; I’m disgusted.” John snapped.  
Sherlock’s countenance was yet to change which only fed the rage in John further. The taller of the two men looked forward towards the cabi, and if John didn’t know any better he may have thought he was actually getting through to him. The thought was short lived as Sherlock spoke with a steady unfazed tone.

“She’s not dead, doesn’t that count for anything?” At that, John actually had to laugh. It was dry and blunt, and sounded a bit like a sob in all honestly, but it was still unmistakably a laugh. 

He almost sounded deranged as he responded, “Yes, Sherlock, her life is worth a damn, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is far more wrecked than it should be. And it’s because you. You had the chance to protect her in there and you didn’t seize it. You made a bet- A bet! Are you really so self-righteous that you think that is not taking a chance? I hate to break this to you, but you’re not always right Sherlock, and this isn’t just about you. This about other people’s lives and I’ll tell you something. Yes, Clara is alive, but she is not okay, not anymore. And you take blame on that fact.” 

John had gone from sounding comically annoyed to raging to simply done. When he finished, he took a deep breath and held his face in his hands trying to decide what he felt. Daring a glance at Sherlock, he was only confused further, as for the first time he thought he almost saw… guilt? Was that was that was? John didn’t have the energy to try and figure it out, so he closed his eyes. Focused on the steady motion of the car and the sound of rain pounding the window.

“John, I,” Sherlock began, but John didn’t give him the chance.  
“You stood there while she was being strangled and tortured because you felt the need to know if you were right or not. Is that would do for anyone else? For Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or me…” By the time he finished, John felt spent. He just felt so tired, too tired to truly be angry anymore, and again he wished he could just stop feeling. Yes, that would be nice, be so much easier.  
But he couldn’t have his wish; he still felt Sherlock’s shoulder on his; still heard him say, “You know I would never do that with you.” John just shook his head, too tired to face away from the window. 

“No, Sherlock, I don’t know that. Not anymore.”

If John had been watching him, he would have known that Sherlock was about to say something. And he may have just managed to see the confusion mixed in with hurt in the dark haired man’s bright green eyes. It’s too bad, really, that just then the taxi driver called back to them that they have reached their stop. Wordlessly, John slipped the driver the money and slipped out of the car and into the rain, slamming the door behind him. He instantly felt bad; the car didn’t do anything wrong to him. Then, he decided he was probably going insane as he was ready to apologize to a car. Sleep, he thought, that’s what I need.  
John led the way up the stairs to the flat, holding his arms over his head as if it would actually keep him from getting soaked, then leaned up against the wall beside the door. Sherlock just looked at him.

“You have the keys, remember?” John said slowly. Sherlock blinked as if just waking up, and John cursed himself for noticing the way water droplets collected on his eyelashes.

“Yes, right.” He stepped forward, pulling jingling metal from within his coat. John closed his eyes and used the sound as another distraction to envelope his senses.

A few beats of silence too long had John coming out of his haze and turning to his companion.

“What’s taking so long?”

Sherlock did not look at him, but instead simply gave the 221b a light push with two fingers. The door slowly creaked open. John rose off the wall turning to stand shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock.

“Did we forget to lock it?” John said quietly. Sherlock merely shook his head, eyes glued to the open doorway. He takes a slow step into the building, looking around cautiously before continuing up the stairs. John followed closely behind, swiveling around for a good look at the entrance before heading up the stairs. Hopping off the last step, he found Sherlock standing before the door to their flat. He had a hand perched on the handle, although it was already cracked, and John assumed that was not his flat mates doing.  
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, as if asking permission. John nodded, swallowing thickly.

Sherlock pushed in the door, and together, they stepped in.

John did not know what he had been expecting, but it surely was not what they found.  
One of their kitchen chairs had been turned to face the front door, and sitting in it was a man. He had hair the color of warm wet sand, light eye brows, and a prominent jaw. He wore a tweed suit with a light shirt, maroon braces, and a bow tie to match. In his hand was a strange sort of metal device with a bright green glowing tip. Amusement and joy plagued his face, but he did not say anything, just observed the two men in the doorway.

John was the first to break and speak up. “Why are you in our flat?” he said suddenly. The stranger only smiled wider, and Sherlock turned to him. “Do you know this man?” John shook his head, turning back to the fair haired man at the table.  
He twirled his silver tool around his fingers expertly, gracefully slipping it into his jacket and uncrossing his legs to stand up. He was long and lean, lanky was probably the best description, really. He leaned up against the table and slipped a hand in the pocket of his pants. “I just came to thank you.” John and Sherlock frowned at him in unison, although the man’s smile did not waver. “For what?” Sherlock asked, blatantly confused.

The man shifted away from the table, slipping his other hand in his pocket as well. John distractedly pondered why the man couldn’t seem to stay still; he was constantly changing positions and fidgeting. “For protecting her tonight.” At this John narrowed his eyes further. Meanwhile the man in the bowtie eyed the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. He picked out a nice looking apple and took a bite, hopping up onto the kitchen table and crossing his legs once more. 

“Wait, are you talking about Clara?” John asked and he could see Sherlock flash a confused look at him out of the corner of his eye.  
The man simply shrugged, although something sparked in his eyes that John couldn’t place, “Of course, who else would I be talking about?” He acted as if it was intensely obvious, and John could practically hear the gears working in Sherlock’s head, trying to figure this out. “She means a lot to me, and will someday to you, too,” he stated with a grin, “so thank you John Watson and Sherlock Holmes for protecting my Clara.” John repeated this statement over in his mind. No, he thought, no way.

And with that, he hopped off the table and walked to the door. Both John and Sherlock parted on either side of it, allowing him a path, and the man strode out, giving John a wink before going to the first step of the stairs.  
Sherlock seemed to just find his voice, calling after the man, “Wait! Who are you?”

The man swiveled on his heels and straightened his jacket looking positively amused, with a slight grin. John and the man’s voices harmonize as they speak at the same time, John’s awed and quiet, and the man’s excited, as if he had waited all day to get to say it.

“The Doctor.”

The man looked at John with a raised eyebrow, almost looking impressed. He took a last bight of his apple, and then oddly enough, pulled out another from within his jacket. He tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it, still looking dazed. “You’ll be needing that.” Sherlock turned it in his hands. On it was carved an ‘I’ and a ‘U’ with a bite in the middle. They both frowned. “I owe you?” Sherlock inquired.

The man tucked his apple core in his jacket, nodding plainly. If John wasn’t mistaken, he almost looked graver than before. He turned to leave and it was John that called after him this time.

“Doctor, where are you going?”

He smirked over his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be there when you need me. Next time you fall, I’ll be there to catch you.” At this statement, the Doctor’s expression changed slightly, again almost looking more sober than before. “I owe you one. Holmes. Watson.” He put two fingers to his head and gave them a small salute before turning swiftly and trotting down the stairs. The sound of a slamming door came moments later.

For a long while John and Sherlock just stood, staring after him. John cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck.

“Well, tonight has been quite stressful and particularly odd so I’m just going to go sleep now. Night, Sherlock.” 

He had just made it past the kitchen when Sherlock’s voice came from behind him. 

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?”

John didn’t turn to face Sherlock, simply huffed, fought a smirk, and continued on his way, the only thing he allowed himself to focus on being how good his bed was going to feel.

**Author's Note:**

> So that was not horrible? Hopefully you guys liked it!! please leave comments of what you thought:)xx


End file.
